Maria Kane, the Rottweiler, couldn’t see me until Friday, offering me a late lunch, her only available window for the next four weeks. I took it.
Her office is based at the other end of High Street from work. It’s cold out, almost the end of September. I draw the belt of my trench coat tighter around me, checking my appearance in the reflection of the betting shop. I’m not a gambler, but I would bet that Ellis is watching me now. I’m on my way to get help from the toughest lawyer in the area. If I were her, I’d be watching me.
The thought of Ellis makes me overheat. I stop outside the florists, inhaling the calming aroma, fixing my hair up before continuing along my way, only to stop four steps later to remove my coat. I carry it on my arm, ignoring the familiar prickly heat spreading over my limbs. And then I’m there.
Maria Kane is a lot shorter than me, than most people. She’s wearing shiny patent heels and is at the water cooler, filling a bottle, water glugging. There are peace lily plants everywhere and on her desk there’s a tiny gold Buddha.
“You must be Gabby O’Neal?” she says, setting her bottle down to shake my hand.
“Yes. Thank you for seeing me.” I wait for her to go behind her desk, but she doesn’t. Instead, she sits on a dusky blue sofa, gesturing for me to join her. So far I’m struggling to get even a whiff of Rottweiler.
“Can I get you something to drink?” she asks.
“No, thanks.”
“Then we’ll get straight to it,” she says, picking up a notepad and pen. “So…your husband is waiting for a decision from you on a sole or joint application, is that correct?”
“Yes.” I’m squeezing my right hand. I try to unclench it, but it coils back up.
“And with both children at university, there are no dependents under the age of eighteen living at home?”
“Correct.”
She tucks her hair behind her ear, revealing a sparkling crucifix on her lobe. She has neat features—smooth skin, short hair, the whites of her eyes very bright as though she takes everything off at night and washes it.
“The main sticking point, as I understand, is the house.” She looks at me with the whisper of a frown. I wouldn’t put her much past thirty—no wrinkles or grays. “Do you have a mortgage?”
“No.”
She jots this down. “And when did you last have it valued?”
“The house?” I ask, stalling. Talking about this is always awkward. “Two years ago.”
“And?” she says, pen poised.
I shuffle my feet. “It was valued at six million.”
I wait for her to give a little whistle, raise an eyebrow, but she doesn’t even blink. And it’s then that I see the Rottweiler. She writes six million on her pad, underlining it. To be fair, there are many houses in this area worth double that. This won’t be her biggest case, not by a long way. But it will be of interest, her hackles raised.
She sets her pen down. “Firstly, you should know that disputes of this nature are very common. It can feel as though whoever gets the house has won.”
I nod, wanting to tell her that it’s not about the money, nor a bitter struggle for territory or revenge. Doesn’t everyone say that though?
“At the risk of patronizing you, I’ll run through your options.” She holds up her index finger, striking it off, a bracelet tinkling daintily. “One: you sell the house and buy two homes, which in your case sounds feasible.”
Two homes. I smile pleasantly.
“Secondly—” she strikes off her next finger “—you buy him out.”
Again, I smile. Even though that one’s impossible.
“Thirdly, you postpone making any decisions until later—when your children leave university, for example.”
This one gets a genuine nod.
“And finally…you transfer a portion of the value from one of you to the other as part of the settlement. So your husband might give up a share of the ownership rights, while retaining a stake in it. Hence, if it were sold at any point, he’d then receive that share.”
“Okay.” I’m getting a bit tangled mentally. All I want is for her to tell me what to do—how I can keep the house. “I think the last one sounds the best?”
She picks up her water bottle, taking a sip. “This house is an emotive subject for you, isn’t it? I mean—” she smiles fleetingly “—it always is, but in your case it seems more so. Am I right?”
“Yes.” My throat constricts, and I tighten my fist again.
“May I ask why?”
Beyond her, the phone rings, her assistant answering it. I become aware of the traffic passing the front windows, shoppers going by with carrier bags.
“It was…a gift…for me,” I reply. “But I changed the deeds so my husband was co-owner, just to keep things fair.”
We both hear the regret in my voice.
“I see.” She doesn’t probe any further, sits back in her seat, receding.
“All our assets are tied up in the house,” I continue. “I can’t afford to mortgage it or buy him out. We do have some savings, but…”
She touches my arm lightly. “It’s okay. We don’t need to get into the financial nitty-gritty today. Yet, I did want to ask you about mediation.”
Something about the way she says this troubles me. “What about it?”
“Well, when you made this appointment my assistant mentioned that you seemed keen on it.” She pauses. “Is it you who’s keen, or your husband?”
“My husband.”
“Only, I’d think about that if I were you.” She sits up straight, picking up her pen. “If you wanted me to represent you, we could go ahead and apply to the court for a financial order. The main issue, however, will be whether your husband can afford to live without the sale of the house?”
I feel everything drop inside and out, my shoulders flagging. “He can’t. At least, I don’t think he can.”
“Well, that’s going to be the biggest problem, although ultimately it’ll be up to the court. With the children still at university, there’s a chance you could be permitted to stay, with the house still in his name and in the event of you selling, he’d then get half. Would you be okay with that?”
“Yes. I think so.”
“Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”
I wish I shared her faith.
“At the end of the day,” she says, standing up, straightening her blouse, “the most important thing is ensuring that there are no power imbalances between spouses.”
She gazes at me, the word power hanging between us. And then she reaches for a divorce pamphlet and her business card, handing them to me. It feels very much as though it’s over to me now, to decide whether to hire this friendly Rottweiler.
“Can I ask what you meant about mediation?” I say, as we walk to the door. “Why did you say to think about it?”
“Oh, it’s normally not the first thing that anyone rushes to do, that’s all. It struck me as unusual.”
I’m standing near the front desk, her assistant typing rapidly. “He’s taking advice from his parents and they’re quite traditional. Plus, they’re keen to protect the children. So that might be it.”
“I see.” But I can tell from her tone that she doesn’t think that’s it at all.
“Is there something else to be aware of?” I ask, holding my coat in my arms like a security blanket.
“Not at this stage.” She surveys the street, her eyes moving with the traffic, flitting left to right. “But if you work with me, I’ll tell you.”
I stare at her, my cheeks reddening. And then she laughs. “I’m kidding!”
Is she though? I don’t take the chance. “I’d like to work with you.”
She smiles, shaking my hand, her grip surprisingly firm. “Good. Let’s fix up a meeting as soon as my diary becomes available.”
I wait, eyeing her. “So…you were going to tell me?”
“Ah. Yes.” She watches the traffic again, lips parted in contemplation. “Sometimes one of the parties will rush the other into mediation to prevent certain details from being disclosed.”
“Details?”
She gazes up at me. “Yes. If there’s something he’d want to hide.”
My heart feels as though she’s tightening it in her hand, one end of it bulging like a deflated balloon.
She can see the terror on my face. “Let’s bring that meeting forward,” she says, turning to her assistant.
I leave Maria Kane’s premises like a fragile butterfly heading into a storm. It’s starting to rain, the sunshine still strong, illuminating the splinters of moisture. I stop at the florists again, standing among buckets of sunflowers and calla lilies, typing on my phone.
Fred, please cancel the mediation appointment. I’m not ready yet.
I read it through twice, press Send.
Fridays are always quiet, with many of the staff working from home. A few years ago, I instated Dress Down Fridays and asked one of the young administrators to make an office playlist to liven things up. In the spirit of this, on my way back from Maria Kane’s, I pick up a box of doughnuts and coffees and as I set them on my desk, a couple of people cheer. I feel temporarily soothed, happy to be here, with my team, in the rhythm of normal life, if only for a few more hours.
Shaun isn’t back yet from lunch. I went late, and he went early. It’s been over two hours. I try to be tolerant, flexible, but he’s been doing this more and more, seeing how far he can push me. Again, it reminds me of the children when they were little—the first time Alice looked me in the eye and said no!
As I start work, he enters the room, looking straight at me, making sure I clock his return time. “There’s a doughnut there for you, Shaun,” I call out cheerfully. That was the tact I took with the kids: cheerfulness, even though I’m sure there was a bit of shrill in there, like there is now.
He’s not too proud for a doughnut, takes one, biting it before he’s even seated.
I think then of Maria Kane, of what she said about imbalances of power, and I realize that if Shaun is testing me then I have to have a more effective strategy than appeasement. Because he’s not one of my kids and he’s paid to show up at work within the conditions of his contract like everyone else. None of which I feel able to tell him.
Which is why I think I have to. Approaching his desk, I smile, not able to throw all my softening tactics away. “Shaun…could we have a quick word, please?” I don’t wait for him to reply, but head to the conference room.
Naturally, he takes his time. I’m standing at the window, looking over the rooftops to the gray sea, gathering my words several times over, when he finally joins me.
“What’s this about?” he asks gruffly, hands in pockets.
“Nothing too serious,” I reply. “I just wanted to ask you about your working hours, whether you need a longer lunch. Because we could rethink your hours? It’s not a problem.” I mean this—I’m flexible.
He doesn’t reply, looks past me, out the window.
“I… Well, there are some newer members of our team who might think that it’s okay to choose the length of their lunch hour. Obviously, we have to be fair to everyone and keep things consistent. Because they look up to you.” I add this last bit, even though it’s not true, to my knowledge.
He folds his arms, lifts his chin.
“Come on, Shaun. Work with me here.”
He looks at me then, in a way that’s not all that nice. “I have nothing to say to you, except good luck.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m not sure that I follow…” I swallow nervously, watching as a smirk forms on his lips. He’s enjoying this, whatever it is.
“Funny you’re in here lecturing me about fairness and consistency,” he says, playing with the chain on the window blinds, twisting it in his hands, “when your husband’s out there whoring.”
Everything seems to lurch—my stomach, the room. Outside, the music swells, as someone turns up the volume, the bassline matching my pounding heart. “What did you just say?”
“You heard.”
I stare at him. “What do you know about Fred? Why—?”
“That’s gotta hurt, eh?” He drops the chain and it rattles against the glass. “What is she, like, twenty years younger than you?”
My face burns as though he slapped it. “What are you talking about?”
He looks pleased with himself, rocking on his toes. “I saw him coming out of an expensive jeweler’s with some gold digger in a stripper dress. I tried not to stare, but it was difficult not to, to be honest, and I wasn’t the only one.” He checks his watch, taps it. “Anyhow, I’d best get back to work—be fair to everyone on the team, right?”
He leaves the room with a bit more swagger than he had five minutes ago, as though this is karma, as though my getting this job, outflanking him, meant I was due a good outflanking myself—the mother of all outflanks.
At the door, he stops, his head rolling slyly in my direction. “I’d check my bank balance if I were you, Gabby.”